


Cold Comfort

by tanglelore



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Abuse, Alternian Empire, Animal Death, Classism, Drug-Induced Sex, Lusus death, Original Character Death(s), Other, POV Second Person, Sexual Coercion, Sexual Slavery, Slavery, Slurs, hemocasteism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-20
Updated: 2015-01-20
Packaged: 2018-03-08 09:26:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3204221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tanglelore/pseuds/tanglelore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Dualscar gets everything that he wants and is the master of all he surveys. Unfortunately, you are no one of particular consequence, and thus are in for a really terrible time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold Comfort

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Laylah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laylah/gifts).



> Tangle's first chaptered fic; this first part is all violence and suggestion. The explicit sex begins in part two. I'm tagging in advance so please, please, please, take caution. Also, let me know if you think there's anything else that needs tagging as this goes along. ^_^

Failed legislacerators were usually just culled without ever leaving the courtroom. If their client didn't at least make an attempt prior to their own execution, His Honorable Tyranny would certainly attend to it. That was tradition, and exactly how you'd expected to one day go. But you are apparently special -- immediately after the guilty verdict is passed you're dragged from the courtblock in chains and hauled to the markets. You wonder as you are tossed into a holding pen by a rough-fisted blueblood, exactly who it is you've angered, or perhaps, pleased.

Your time on the slave block is short. A naval captain picks you up because the tag on your neck claims you can cook. At least, you're pretty sure that's why. You can't fathom any other reason why a highblood would need a newly nameless teal such as yourself. You are not the only purchase, of course, but all the rest are warmer, mostly rustbloods with hopeless faces and broken horns who were probably pulled from the fighting pits. You're the only one still fully dressed, and a spike of pity glances through you at the thought. You quell it fast. You are all going to die soon enough, no point in letting your survival instincts take over now.

The lot of you are marched down to the wharfs and led onto the ship. The masts are tall and weather-beaten, and everything smells of damp, salty wood, rusted metal, and the sweet echoes of blood. Glancing up for one last good look at the glowering sky before being sent to your fate in the galley, you find that you recognize the sign flying from the tallest mast. The Orphaner. You've been bought by the most notorious of the seafaring lords. Fear slithers down your spine. You've always been sure that the stories were mostly exaggeration. The violets lived so long, bested only by the Empress Herself (may she glow eternal in the light of Gl'bgolyb), that it was impossible to know. But you still _hear_ things: stories of how he kills the lusii of the innocent; tales of his rumored kismesissitude with Mindfang, Scourge of the Seas; and the worst ones, ghastly recountings of what he likes to do to his slaves. You suddenly think of the beautiful jade in the secreterrorism block. You'd hoped to someday coax her into one of your conciliatory quadrants, but instead you'll never see her again. You wonder if she'll miss you. You feel your eyes begin to water and bow your head, hoping it'll seem like respect, or maybe humility.

They take your clothes and give you new ones, ragged and worn, with vague stains that you don't examine. You are given a sopor pill, and you take it and rock yourself to sleep in your uncomfortable hammock, wishing for your clean recuperacoon and your lusus' comforting hoots.

As you expected, the next day you're shoved straight into the kitchens, where you learn how to cook mush and preserve meat while pretending you're simply more familiar with higher cuisine rather than a rank amateur. You're mocked soundly for being fancy and the galley master threatens to apprentice you to Dualscar's personal chef, a salty, one-eyed greenblood named Grizze who has maintained her place primarily through aggression and a willingness to use her subordinates as poison testers. It's clear they aren't really sure what to do with you. You’re just high enough on the hemospectrum that most of them have the automatic urge to defer, but you’re also still just a slave, and a fresh slave at that. You tell no one that you were actually a _lawyer_ ; that would be tantamount to suicide, and you haven’t lost all hope of someday making it off the ship. It hasn't even set sail yet, Dualscar is still ashore, busy with some political thing that everyone gossips about but no one actually knows the truth of. To your surprise, you hear some familiar names bandied about by the more senior officers as they come below deck to get their daily rations: a cerulean you met on the job; an indigo statesman whose trial had been the stuff of dreams for every junior legislacerator at the time; a fellow teal who you'd had a few lunches with. You don't know how they are important to whatever Dualscar is up to, but you feel almost lucky to be here instead of there. Almost.

A few days later, there's a lot of stamping, yelling, and bustle above, and the vessel lurches. Your bloodpusher sinks. Dualscar has returned, mood apparently "black as the deeps", according to one of your fellow galley workers, and you're soon on your way out of port. Grizze smacks you on the back with a grin and tells you not to worry, that you'll get your sealegs soon. You don't even try to smile back, and she smacks you again, this time on the ear.

"Y'don't have to be 'appy to be here, tealie. I'm guessing you were in a pretty cushy spot before, but Orphaner runs a tight ship. Y'try to escape, and you'll be food for the sharks before an hour is up. There's talk of giving you to me, y'know." She bares her teeth, yellow as her eye, "But you don't want that. So straighten up!" She cuffs you soundly again and sways off into her private food prep block. 

A soft voice pipes up behind you. "She likes you. I don't know why." 

Startled, you turn. There's a rust galley wench looking at you appraisingly. You're taller, healthier, probably younger, and she's got an iron pan she's scrubbing that's almost as big around as she is. You blush a little, oddly embarrassed.

"Don't look at me like I think you're anything special. You must have really fucked up in your old job to end up in the markets. But if you stay on Grizze's good side, maybe you'll end up warming her bed before they drop you over the side. You're much too pretty for anything else."

She returns to her pan, disdain for you flickering over her face. You don't know what to say, and return to your duties, a vague feeling of forboding prickling your skin.

\---

It doesn't take long for you to become used to life at sea, the rhythm of the waves, the smell of grease and salt permeating your waking moments. You're never quite able to sleep properly despite the sopor pills you get once every three days. You try to stay out of everyone's way and follow all orders, performing your assigned tasks with enough enthusiasm to avoid the lash. True to the rusts' statement, Grizze seems to have taken a liking to you, making barely veiled lewd remarks in your direction and patting your rump when you pass too close. You are never allowed above decks, and never see horn nor hair of the captain. Only once does the first mate, a mountain of a blueblood named Tyrall, deign to come to the galleys to inspect the newest members of the crew. You seem to pass muster, though you try not to draw his gaze. You lose track of time, never seeing the sun or moon except through the filthy glass of a porthole.

One day there is a stirring above, and one of the deckhands stumps in during the evening grub prep.

"There's a bird on the mizzen, Grizze. Someone's lusus, I'm guessing. Yours?"

"Ha, nice joke. Mine's been gone longer than I been on this boat, an' you know it. There's a certain blue up there has or had an albatross, though, lad. Sure it's not his?"

"Nah, the boys are pretty sure this one's an owl. Pretty bad shape, though. Been flying through the storm. Reckon as how the Captain'll shoot it down soon. Them uncanny things is bad luck."

An...owl? Your heart pounds and your hands go cold. Not possible. As quietly as you can, you finish kneading the hardtack and set it aside. You have to make it to deck. You slip out when the galley master isn't looking, creeping along the hall to the nearest staircase. Luck is with you; everyone is too busy looking up to take note of your presence.

The sky is clear, and the moons illuminate the bird on the middle mast. It is an owl, an older one, beaten ragged by the effort of flying through rough winds and for longer than seems possible, but you _know_ that flopped eartuft. It's your lusus. He came to find you.

You whisper, "Dad," and he hoots feebly, spreading his wings.

A figure, tall and terrifying, steps forward with a gun, his cape brushing the deck. It's not the Crosshairs, not unless the weapon is much smaller than the legends say, but that's got to be Dualscar, doing what he was born to do. Tears fill your eyes and you lurch forward, hands spread wide to grab his arm, hoping to somehow save your lusus. He aims. Someone notices you and yells, but it's too late. He fires, and it's a perfect shot. Blood sprays and your Dad's soft, beautiful wings close one last time. You watch him fall to the deck and shove your way through the crowd to his body. You sink to your knees and reach a trembling hand out to pet his feathers, and then a shadow falls over you, blocking out the sky.

"That was yours."

It isn't a question. His voice is deep and smooth, the r rolled, the vowels round. Pure highblood seadweller, all chill and dismissive arrogance. You freeze. A heavy boot settles on your wrist, not crushing, not yet, but threatening.

"Where'd we dredge this one up, Tyr?" 

The first mate stares down his nose at you. "What, the legislacerator?" He _knew_. Someone behind you gasps. Your secret is out; if you ever make it back below, you're dead before dawn. "Capital, like all the rest from this batch. 'S been in the galley."

Dualscar removes his boot from your arm, then leans down and grabs your dad by a leg, heaving him over the side of the ship with no effort at all. There's barely a splash, and you bow your forehead to the deck and weep. Someone kicks you, and you curl tighter. There are ugly murmurs, whispers about bad luck and legislacerators all around you, but Dualscar's voice is clear, ringing out above them.

"Stop. Let me have a look."

There are hands on you, pulling you up and lifting your chin, displaying your face. You find yourself on your knees, hands held wide. Someone's got a good grip on your horns, and the sensation makes you choke back a sob. 

The Orphaner stands before you. You can't help but look at him; he's been a boogeyman in wiggler's tales for so long, and it astonishes you to find that he is still a troll, and far more attractive than his reputation. He's intimidatingly tall, and though slimmer at the waist than you thought he'd be, his shoulders seem vast, dwarfing even Tyrall's. His arms are bare and corded with muscle, laced with thin scars, and wrapped in gold and amethyst jewels. His horns are tall and elegant, striking from his head like lightning. There is a smattering of silver, the only thing marking his age, in the swept-back hair near his earfins, the delicate membranes of which are stung with beads of gold. His namesake scars curve across his brow, shining like pearls in the moonlight. You pause and wonder which story of their origin is the truth. You know you'll never find out, because he's going to kill you in a moment, but you've heard so many variations. His eyes are deep-set and fierce, vivid violet and amber-gold. He gives you a thorough once-over, obviously amused by your stare. He touches your shoulders, your hair, brushes a claw over your lips, gives your horns what you can only describe to yourself as a caress. You feel a peculiar tightness thrumming through your body, fear and a thready hint of arousal you attempt to ignore. You struggle against the hands holding you, unsure of whether you want to get away or get closer.

"Take the lawyer to my cabin."

Tyrall snorts and scruffs you. You fall limp, his thick fingers knotted in the looser skin at the base of your skull. This is not how this is supposed to go. You are supposed to be lying in a pool of teal, eyes sightlessly pointed at the sky. You are supposed to be already dead. The Orphaner killed your lusus; he was supposed to kill you. He always does in the stories. You are hauled away as Dualscar orders one of the deckhands to swab away the damp puddle of your father's blood.

**Author's Note:**

> I've wanted to write this since the prompts went up. I wasn't quite expecting it to turn into a multi-chapter bodice ripper, but it has. So, um, yay? Happy Tanglemas, you. ^_~


End file.
